Vincent: Paying it Forward

I got a letter the other day from the Mohawk and Hudson River Humane Society. They’re having an upcoming art auction to benefit the shelter, and asked if I could contribute a piece or two from my collection. The letter was even personally signed by Greg Haymes, the co-creator of the Nippertown website that’s part of my blogroll (plus, Hames is “Sarge Blotto” from my tied-for-first-place-with-Phantogram favorite Albany-based band Blotto).

It goes without question. I went through my photographic archives and found one of my Nipper Polar Panorama prints. Yesterday I dropped it off at the animal shelter for the auction.

I do this because of what the Humane Society does for animals. It takes care of them, it feeds them, it finds them new homes.

And it’s a great way for me to repay a debt of kindness, and pay it forward.

Spin back the clock to about 1990. I met this girl from Ballston Spa at a get-together, and we went on a couple of dates. Nothing earth-shaking, just a couple of lunches and some phone talk. One day she asked me, “Chuck, there’s a stray cat that’s been hanging around our family’s barn and we need to find him a good home. If I make sure it gets all its shots and is neutered, can you help me find him a home?”

Now understand something. I am not a pet person. My family has always had German Shepherds, and never trained them properly. I’ve tried to raise fish, mice, hamsters, they either start swimming sideways or they escape the cages and vanish. And don’t even get me started on cats.

I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t take on the responsibility of owning a cat. I was already going through a very nasty divorce, and was trying to raise my daughter Cassaundra and her older sister. The last thing I needed was a pet cat scratching up the furniture and shedding all over the couch and meowing all night – adding more stress to an already stressful situation.

“Sure,” I said. “I’ll help you find a home for the cat.”

Mental note. Must use brain – not other organs – to make decisions.

A few days later, she brought the cat over. It was a big orange tabby cat with a very curious gaze. Upon entering my apartment, the cat quickly raced out of the girl’s grasp and sprinted around the living room like it wanted to touch every floorboard in 20 seconds or less.

“He likes it here,” she said to me.

That’s great – but I didn’t want the cat to “like it here.”

A few days went by, and the girl and I never got back in touch with each other. So now I have this cat.

A cat who decides he doesn’t want to leave the house.

I ask a few people I know if they want a cat, they politely refuse. Great. I’m stuck with this orange tabby. May as well make the best of it.

Nobody bothered to name the little guy – there was no collar tag on the cat. And I couldn’t keep calling it “orange tabby.” Now around 1990, the fantasy series Beauty and the Beast was on TV, so I looked at the cat and said, “You look like a Vincent. I can’t come up with a better name – you’re now a Vincent.”

Vincent didn’t seem to mind the name. He also didn’t seem to mind climbing on my lap while I watched television. He also didn’t seem to mind exploring the apartment, catching mice and birds off the front porch (and one time, a squirrel), and showing off his catch in exchange for my going off his “cat food” menu and opening up a fresh can of people’s tuna or salmon.

Vincent was a very quiet cat, anybody who showed up at the house simply received a few rubs against their leg as he walked by, almost to say that the visitor was welcome to my home. He didn’t scratch anything, and he always used the litter box – which, for someone who doesn’t necessarily like cats, was a welcome sign.

A couple of things he didn’t like. He hated snow. I say this because one time he got out of the apartment, walked onto the back porch (we lived on the second floor) and slipped off the railing – right into a puffy snowbank. He raced out of that snow like a rocket off a launch pad, and when he got back in the house, he looked like an icicle-coated powder puff. A quick rubdown in a hot towel, and he was back to normal. And he stayed in the house for the rest of the winter. I don’t think he ventured out of the house until June that year.

He also didn’t like anyone to disturb his nap. Vincent would fall asleep on the couch, on the floor, in my bed, in my kids’ beds. And trying to move him meant you had to risk a claw in reaction. So if he slept in my bed, I slept in the living room. You make compromises.

He didn’t mind trips to the veterinarian, I think he just liked to show off. He was a good little cat and would sit quietly in his cat carrier when we walked from the apartment to the veterinarian’s on Morton Avenue. I think Vincent just appreciated the fresh air and the fact that he had a family to be a part of, and I appreciated a pet that was both low-maintenance and high-affection.

Eventually I started to get involved with Vicki (who I would later marry in 1994), but Vicki and Vincent did not get along. Vincent had no problems with Vicki – but Vicki had animal allergies, and it was a choice – her or Vincent.

Mental note. Must use brain – not other organs – to make decisions. Second warning.

But really, the choice for me wasn’t picking Vicki or Vincent – it was actually honoring my original plan, which was to find Vincent a new home. Eventually my mother took Vincent in, and Vincent spent his final years at my mother’s mobile home. From what I understand, Vincent’s new place for naps was right near a birdcage where my mother kept a couple of parakeets. I never found out if he was guarding the parakeets from outside forces, or making sure the parakeets stayed in their cage.

I never found out when Vincent finally chased his last bird. I do know from my daughter Cassaundra (who visited my mother and stepfather on occasion) that Vincent died one day – only to have my mother tell Cassaundra, “Don’t tell your father Vincent died. It’ll only upset him.” Cassaundra eventually told me a few weeks later, when we were talking about something unrelated to Vincent. I think I was more upset that Vincent died and that nobody could spare a phone call or an e-mail to let me know.

However, I stopped worrying about that and thought instead about the best way to thank Vincent for the few years of peace and joy he brought my family. And with that, whenever I can do something nice for the Mohawk and Hudson River Humane Society – including everything from donating artwork to dropping off my empty deposit bottles and cans – I’ll do it.

Vincent was a stray who eventually found happiness. And I hope that other strays and abandoned cats and dogs can also find happiness with new owners as well.

And in the end, if one of my framed photos helps the shelter take care of one more animal without worry, that’s all that matters.

Great story Chuck. Thanks for telling me about this one. Of course I was in tears by the end, but that just means it had a lot of feeling to it. Thank you for taking in a stray and taking such care of Vincent even though you weren’t a ‘cat’ person, it seems he really liked living with you. Wish there were more like you in the world. I’m sure the donation was greatly appreciated also, your work is wonderful.